


Oblivious

by mansikka



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Alec and Magnus are having a meal together. The waiter is a little too fond of Alec for Magnus' liking.





	Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Desirae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desirae/gifts).



> Psst... Desirae... did you know there isn't (yet) a tag for Jealous!Magnus? Huh... ;) for you; thank you for the prompt! x

Magnus watches Alec placing their order with a grim, pinched smile.  

It’s true; in all of his years, he’s never once realized he had such a thing for hearing languages, and given the number he can speak of his own, perhaps the idea is a little strange. Catarina would mock him surely, and Ragnor would be utterly beside himself with mirth. But neither of them are here, watching with a tight clench in their stomachs for the beautiful, halting way Alec stumbles over the food they’ve chosen, as bile rises in Magnus’ throat for the delighted way the waiter’s smiling back.

Alec’s pronunciation is perfectly imperfect. He has stresses on a scattering of the wrong syllables, and his inflection, at times, is a grammatical hazard waiting to happen. But he’s keen, an eager learner, surprising himself more than anyone, that whilst he might not be picking everything up as quickly as he’d like to be doing, he’s enjoying the process of studying.  

Their evenings, which so often dissolve into the domestic simplicity of the two of them spread out on the couch with books, has evolved from taking it in turns to read a passage out to each other, to Alec practicing the new words he’s learned, and Magnus trying not to get too worked up for hearing it. A warlock of his age and status should not be reduced to weakness by something like a _language kink_ , he tells himself, eyes narrowing in on the way the waiter leans over Alec as he reads the wine menu.

Alec’s confession that he’d not paid that much attention in the compulsory Latin classes he’d taken when he was young, and that he’d shied away from learning languages altogether because they didn’t come as naturally to him as they had to Izzy and Jace, had come as a surprise to Magnus. He’d already decided there was nothing Alec couldn’t do if he put his mind to it, and to think that he’d not tried in a subject purely because he wasn’t as good at it as his siblings, was to Magnus, nothing short of amusing. The amusement died on his tongue, however, along with his beginnings of teasing, when Alec confessed he’d like to learn another language so that they could go to a restaurant together somewhere, and that he could do the ordering for once.

So here they are, living the cliché of all things romantic, in a candlelit restaurant overlooking a beautiful spot on the Seine. And Alec's ordering in French, Magnus thinks again with a flutter of his heart, discreetly making an adjustment to the tightness of his pants. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

It's perfect, he thinks, the evening really is perfect, in just about every way it's possible to be. Or at least it would be, Magnus amends with a scowl, if he could just get rid of that waiter's predatory smile.

“How’d I do?” Alec asks nervously once the waiter’s finally turned away. Magnus’ eyes narrow in on the curve of the man’s back thinking that one short blast of magic could trip him up into the path of that dessert cart another waiter’s wheeling through. But Magnus forces his eyes back to Alec and rewards him with a warm smile, reaching across the table to tangle their fingers together.

“Alexander, you were perfect,”

“I know I messed up on the—”

“Then you sounded perfect,” Magnus amends quickly with a squeeze of his hand, “thank you,”

“Sure,” Alec smiles, his fingers tapping with nervous energy against the table, “you might not be thanking me when we get our food; I could’ve ordered everything wrong,”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Magnus assures him, trying and failing to make his smile anything but adoring; Alec rarely stumbles on anything anymore—except when Magnus flirts outrageously with him just to get a reaction, of course—so to see him so flustered, uncertain of himself in a situation where it’s okay for him to be uncertain, is something of a treat.  

“So what are we—”

But whatever Alec was about to say is cut off, rudely, Magnus seethes, by the return of the overzealous waiter. Who does he think he is, Magnus asks himself, taking in the hair that’s been styled just a bit too much, the pristine press of his sleeves, and the perfect fit of his pants. The way he leans over Alec to pour the wine is completely unnecessary, and, Magnus adds, if the man had any sense of decorum about him, since Alec was the one to choose the wine, it should be _him_ doing the sampling. Clearly this _waiter_ is taking every opportunity he can get to fawning his way over Alec.

“It’s good,” Alec announces, his eyes flaring before he repeats the same in French. And the waiter simpers, he actually simpers, Magnus thinks to himself in incredulity, scowling so hard that the tension across his brow is giving him a slight headache.

“You are American,” the waiter cries with utter joy, like it wasn’t already totally obvious from Alec’s accent. He then proceeds to flatter Alec’s language skills to a point where his cheeks are an adorable shade of blush. No one but himself should be allowed to cause such blushes, Magnus thinks then, shifting furiously in his seat.

“He’s… enthusiastic,” Alec announces when the waiter leaves again, his head turning to watch as the waiter goes, which does nothing but twist an ugly coil of jealousy in Magnus’ gut.

“Of course,” Magnus replies curtly, “it is his job to pamper and preen to every one of his clients. He’s probably hoping to earn himself a generous tip,”  

Or something else, Magnus adds to himself, growing ever more incensed. If that waiter thinks he’s going to get his hooks into Alec and drag him off somewhere—

“It’s a bit much,” Alec says as he turns back around, oblivious to what Magnus is thinking. “How’s the wine?”

Magnus curls his fingers in a too-tight grip around the stem of his glass, forcing his hand to raise it steadily up to his mouth. He takes a sip; Alec’s got really good at choosing the best wines, he thinks with a touch of pride, and offers up another smile in reward. Alec reaches across the table where Magnus had withdrawn his hand, and slots their fingers together once again.

“I was thinking; what do you wanna do when we leave here?” Alec says then, circling a thumb over the back of his hand.

“What would you like?”

“I asked you,” Alec smiles, squeezing his hand, “I already chose this restaurant,” and he had, Magnus thinks to himself, smiling in memory of the effort he’d gone to, researching somewhere for them to eat. But before Magnus can think of an answer, the waiter is back again, setting down a basket of bread with a flourish, and oh so accidentally nudging against Alec’s hand. That’s tangled through his own, Magnus adds, livid at the audacity.

“This is fresh from our bakery,” the waiter announces, and by the twitch of his hand, Magnus isn’t convinced that the bastard isn’t thinking about feeding Alec from his own fingers. Alec clears his throat, and Magnus looks up to realize just how hard he’s gripping his hand, sliding his fingers away in apology.  

“Thanks,” Alec says, and if the waiter doesn’t beam, looking so pleased with himself that Magnus has the urge to punch him square in the face. Which would not be fitting for their surroundings, he scolds himself, sitting a little straighter in his chair; nor for the purpose of their visit. Which is to spend the evening with Alec in a new location, giving him the opportunity to practice his language skills, and them the chance to be away from their responsibilities.

“Perhaps we could… find a bar. Give you further opportunities to practice your French,” Magnus suggests, watching Alec’s fingers as they tap against the table asking for his hand back.

“Maybe somewhere with music,” Alec adds, seeming to like the idea, and Magnus can’t help smiling. He nods in approval, takes a sip of his wine, and begins to tell him of a live jazz session he’d once attended on the other side of Paris, only for that infuriating waiter to come back yet again.

“Your entrees will be but a few minutes,” he tells Alec, yet to acknowledge Magnus is even at the table opposite him. His accent is thick, and deliberate, and Magnus is sure he’s trying to purr.

Alec looks, if anything, uncomfortable with the attention, and gives a cautious smile back, not seeming to know where to look. “Okay,”

The waiter, who is probably called something adequately pompous—not that Magnus has taken the time to check, of course—stares at Alec then. Magnus can see the way his eyes are drifting over his face as though drinking in every feature there, and the breathy little sigh he gives before snatching them away again has Magnus’ stomach clench so hard, he doesn’t think he’s going to have enough appetite to eat anything at all.  

“So,” Alec says, awkwardly clearing his throat, breaking the bread apart into flaky pieces seeming to need the distraction, “you were saying?” which prompts Magnus to pick up his story from just a moment ago.

“This is so good. Still warm. Try it,” Alec half-interrupts, extending a morsel of the buttery bread in his fingers and holding it expectantly in front of Magnus’ mouth.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Magnus sees the waiter watching them. What he wants to do in retaliation, is to suck the bread right from Alec’s fingers and lick them clean in a filthy claim. But he doesn’t, restraining himself just enough to take the bread delicately in his teeth and humming around the taste of it with a smile. Alec’s eyes fall to his mouth anyway with a slightly heated look, and it’s enough to turn Magnus’ expression a little smug.

“You know,” Alec says then, his voice deepening a little, “I can probably get away with not going back to the Institute until… mid-afternoon tomorrow,”

“I see,”

“So,” Alec continues, reaching out to take his hand again, “if you wanted, we can stay here tonight,”

Magnus thinks of the last time they’d stayed in his apartment in Paris, and his throat dries out. “We could,”

“Maybe go for breakfast at the cafe you like so much,” Alec adds, and if Alec isn’t the sweetest thing that’s ever happened to him, Magnus thinks to himself, his lips turning up in an effortless smile.

“I like this idea,” he replies, and since he’s helpless in all things when it comes to Alec, Magnus finds himself leaning across the table to claim himself a kiss.

Which is exactly the moment when their waiter returns with their food, finally acknowledging Magnus is there at the table, by turning on him with a slightly reprimanding scowl.

As they begin to eat, Magnus twitches in seething silence as the waiter stands and watches over them, fleetingly touching Alec’s shoulder in passing when he assures him the food is good, then sliding his fingers away with a wistful sigh. Magnus glares at Alec’s shoulder as though he can still see the waiter’s fingers there, and it takes Alec clearing his throat and ducking his head to make eye contact to get Magnus’ focus back.

“Is everything okay?” Alec asks, his brow furrowing in concern.

“Everything is fine,” Magnus assures him, “and this? This is delicious. You made an excellent choice,”

“You kind of chose that yourself,” Alec replies, though hums around his own fork in approval.

Dinner really is delicious, Magnus thinks, allowing himself to relax now that the waiter has little reason to keep coming back. His scowl for him on his third visit to _check everything is okay with their meal_ must have done something to prove he is unwelcome, because he’s hovering on the sidelines, darting furtive glances, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Alec’s back.

But when their cutlery clatters to their plates to announce that they are finished, the waiter is swooping in, gathering up their plates with a flourish and insisting on desserts, or coffees, or all kinds of other accompaniments to their meal. With blatant innuendo, Magnus adds to himself with a furious click of his tongue; that it’s going directly over Alec’s head without him noticing he thinks is probably a good thing. Though it’s not doing _him_ any favors with the way it’s repeatedly stabbing at his gut.

“I want dessert, but I’m so full,” Alec announces, sitting back in his seat a little and pressing his hand against his stomach. Of course the waiter is there, blatantly watching the spread of his fingers, eyes lingering down further probably imagining all kinds of things, Magnus thinks, seconds away from leaping out of his seat to defend Alec’s honor. Or defend what’s his, he amends to himself, suddenly feeling both possessive and contrite.

“If it were I so fortunate to be accompanying you this evening,” the waiter sighs mournfully, turning so that he’s practically got his back to Magnus—earning himself even less of a tip, “then I would suggest sharing one of our excellent desserts, then taking a slow, romantic walk along the river. A little exercise to work those calories off,”

“What,” Alec says, licking his lips nervously, which does nothing to calm Magnus’ fury, “what would you suggest?”

Sensing an opportunity, the waiter all but drapes himself over Alec so he can show him the choices on their menu, though with how close he’s pressing, it’s likely he’s going to show him the contents of something else entirely. Like his pants.

“Mags,” Alec says then, calling Magnus’ attention and leaning across the table to point something out to him, “isn’t this like that panna cotta we had at the cafe near the Coliseum?”

Magnus drags his eyes away from glaring at the waiter so hard he thinks he might have smoke coming out of his ears, and follows the tap of Alec’s finger to a picture of a crème brûlée.

“Similar,” he says, trying to keep his voice from revealing just how much anger is raging through his blood.

“But it is not,” the waiter retorts in utter horror with a dramatic hand pressed to his chest, turning to glare at Magnus as though he has offended his entire country, “the brûlée, it is…”

But Magnus isn’t listening. He’s too busy focusing on the amused twitch of Alec’s lips, who clearly hasn’t got the faintest idea of what is happening, yet is happy to watch the waiter pointlessly giving a passionate defense of a dessert.

“I… didn’t like the panna cotta all that much,” Alec confesses when he’s done, screwing his face up a little, “so I think I’d prefer to give this a miss as well,”

“How about the mousse au chocolat?” Magnus suggests, distracting himself from the lingering presence of the waiter by imagining eating said dessert off Alec’s bare chest. Or stomach. Or—

“Sounds good,” Alec agrees, smiling, and utterly innocent to Magnus’ musings. Though with the look the waiter is giving him, Magnus thinks, _he’s_ already imagining all the ways he could have Alec for dessert himself. Has been all evening, Magnus amends, as the waiter makes an unnecessary fuss of their order and walks away with a strut he’s sure is supposed to be seductive, but makes him look more like a peacock trying too hard.

“Just a second,” Alec says then, and before Magnus can say a word is up out of his seat, chasing the waiter down before he can reach the kitchen. And Magnus, boiling with rage, watches the joyous way the waiter appears to mold himself around him, a hand caressing down his arm, a pat to his shoulder, even a press of his fingers to his chest. Magnus is incensed.

But just as he’s pressing his hands against the table edge levering himself to his feet, planning on bringing down all kinds of wrath on this simpering fool of a waiter, Alec is taking a step back. His face is transforming from the softness that he always shares with Magnus into the one he wears to the Institute; a leader, a force to be reckoned with, a man that is not amused by, or looking for, whatever the waiter thinks he has to offer.

Magnus would love to know what he’s saying to him then, because that scowl on Alec’s face Magnus is only too happy to smugly witness and not be on the receiving end of. And the way he points towards their table gesturing at Magnus has the waiter slumping forward so much, that he appears to be a good six inches shorter.  

There is a resigned nod, something mumbled in answer, and then Alec is striding back towards Magnus at the table, leaving the waiter apparently recovering from the harshness of his words.

“I’m sorry he was so rude to you,” Alec says the second he’s seated again, gathering up Magnus’ hands and kissing over the back of one.

 _Rude_ , Magnus thinks, and whilst it’s true, he’s been far more concerned about the waiter’s incessant flirting. Something Alec doesn’t appear to have had any clue was happening, Magnus adds to himself, fighting not to groan out loud.

“I was thinking,” Alec says, draining the last of his glass and nodding towards Magnus’ for him to do the same, “we could take that walk. Take dessert with us. Give the bar thing a miss; not like we can’t come back to Paris another time,”

“What did you have in mind,” Magnus asks, his mind already racing with possibilities, and from the look on Alec’s face, they’ve at least got to be somewhere near being on the same page.

“I ordered another bottle of wine; in fact I think he’s gonna give us it for free because of the way he was behaving,” Alec says, sighing and playing with Magnus’ fingers, “but I thought. Got a great view from your balcony where we can drink it. And if we’re walking back, by the time we get there we’ll probably have an appetite for our dessert,”

“Perfect,” Magnus agrees easily, already planning the best route for them to take. It’s not that far anyway, he thinks, but just far enough for them to take in a few sights in passing.

The waiter returns then, so full of contrition that he’s almost a different person, presenting their dessert in an ornate-looking box, as well as the complimentary bottle of wine wrapped up in tissue paper with an elegant bow around its neck.

Magnus pays the bill without even looking at the total, his eyes on the waiter’s face the entire time. He folds a couple of bills out from his pocket and drops them on the table in dismissal, then goes to stand; Alec is already up, offering out his hand.

“Thank you, Alexander,” he smiles, the waiter barely inches from them and watching the entire interaction.

“My pleasure,” Alec replies, his voice that purposeful octave lower that he uses when he’s deliberately calling for Magnus’ attention. He’s got it, Magnus thinks, and even more so for the way he crowds into his space and kisses him hard right there beside the table.  

Magnus is sure there is a whimper coming from somewhere behind Alec’s shoulder, but he doesn’t care, far too busy chasing the taste of Alec’s tongue.

It’s when they step on to the street outside, inhaling in unison and sighing at the pleasant change of air, that Alec squeezes his fingers announcing he wants Magnus’ attention again.

“Seriously?”

Magnus takes in that one raised, incredulous eyebrow, the smirk turning up his lips, and the squaring of his shoulders that says he’s waiting for an explanation.

“What?”

“Seriously?” Alec repeats, taking a step closer to him and smiling increasingly wider. “You’re centuries old. You’ve been with… more people than I’m probably gonna meet in my entire life. You’ve… got me. Every part of me. And I can’t… you could parade every hot guy there is on this planet right in front of me, and I wouldn’t notice a single one of ‘em. Wouldn’t care, Magnus, because of you. Because I have you, and I… don’t care how many waiters act like… whatever he thought he was acting like. ‘Cos I’m yours. I’m always gonna be yours,”

“...oh…” Magnus stumbles out after a long, embarrassed pause.

“Magnus,” Alec says then, sweet and endearing as anything as he gathers him up in his arms, careful not to knock the bottle of wine or box of dessert into him. “Why would you… why would I even _look_ at anyone else, when I’ve got _you_? How’s… how’s anything else gonna compare to that, huh?” leaving Magnus too stunned to think of clever words.

“Well, when you put it like that—”

“Magnus,” Alec smiles, pressing a long, lingering kiss to his temple, “I love that you open up to me. I love that you… that you let yourself be vulnerable with me. I do; and I appreciate it, more than I… more than I can probably tell you,”

Magnus feels tears pricking in his eyes when Alec pulls back just enough to look at him. He offers up a small smile, and slips his hands around Alec’s waist.

“But you’ve gotta know… you got nothing to worry about,” Alec tells him with a nuzzle against his cheek, “nothing at all; I won’t… I am never gonna do anything that makes you doubt yourself like that. That makes you doubt about _us_ ,”

Magnus is helpless but to raise his hands to cup Alec’s face, and kiss him until those tears threaten to tumble over on to his cheek.

“None of that,” Alec whispers, leaning to press a kiss over his eyes in turn, then wrapping his arm around Magnus’ shoulder, waiting for him to point them in the direction they need to head.

“I got the mousse au chocolat,” Alec announces when they’ve walked in silence for a few minutes, and from the tone in his voice, he might have similar things on his mind to those Magnus had been thinking back in the restaurant. Or maybe he just read _his_ mind, Magnus amends with a soft laugh to himself. That Alec is less oblivious to things than Magnus thinks he is, means there’s possibly all sorts of other things he’s aware about. The thought sends a shiver of excitement up the length of his spine.

“Good,” is all he says in response though, turning a fraction to catch the smirk on Alec’s face, and has to force his legs to not speed up in an effort to get them home quicker.

“I’m all yours, Magnus,” Alec says then, and it’s quiet, earnest, so full of promise that Magnus’ heart gives a thud.

“As I am yours,” he replies, his words cracking on his answer, wrapping his arm a little tighter around Alec’s waist, and allowing himself to feel loved.

 


End file.
